Gossip
by Maverly
Summary: Everyone does it.
1. Default Chapter

A/N: This is an old fic I sort of revamped...not my best, but cute. I figured I'd put all my old ones up so that I don't lose 'em forever when my computer (eventually) implodes. Enjoy :)

"Man," said Mush Meyers as he scanned the front page of the newspaper he had just extracted from the pile on his shoulder, "they jist keep getting' worse. _I_ could write better headlines then this." He let the offensive paper flutter to the ground, a disgusted expression on his face. How was he supposed to eat if the headline writers didn't do their damn job?

Snoddy Elliot, who was out selling that day despite a bad case of the sniffles, bent down and scooped the paper back up, studying the headlines himself. "Yeah,"he snorted, "you, Mush Meyers: man who has never come into fifteen feet of an actual school."

"It don't matter. I could _still_ do a better job then _this_ garbage." Mush sighed loudly. Selling newspapers wasn't Mush's only job, and it certainly wasn't his favorite. Boxing, for example, was far more fun and took _much_ less effort. It was a shame that it wasn't more dependable, too, or else Mush would've abandoned Duane Street and it's inhabitants many months ago.

"There ain't no use sellin' today." He cast an expert eye to the low, slate gray clouds building up in the sky above him. "It's gonna snow, anyway." He began to stroll down the street, digging a cigarette out of his pants pocket.

Snoddy raced to catch up with him, the eternal follower. If Mush wasn't selling...well, then he wasn't either. "So... what're we gonna do?" He asked, though the answer was obvious. Where else did the Manhattan newsies go when they weren't hawking headlines?

"I could use a cuppa coffee..." Mush said nonchalantly, ignoring the fact that his friend had froze in his tracks, his glare as cold as the icy wind that was whipping down the street.

"_Tibby's?_" Whined Snoddy, "C'mon Mush. You know I hate bummin' around there..." He lifted his shoulders in a tired shrug. "Maybe I'll just go back ta bed. I don't feel so good, anyway."

"Snoddy, don't be such a _woman_." Mush retreated a few steps, seized Snoddy's arm with his free hand (the other being occupied with the cigarette), and pulled him down the street toward the familiar establishment. "The only reason you hate Tibby's is cause nowadays it ain't just newsies eatin' there."

"Yeah…so?" Snoddy retorted, his voice a weary and congested monotone, too tired to put up any kind of a fight to his friend's determined plans. " It was nice when it was just us. Like our own little corner of the world. Other people ruin it. Like that guy—the cop. What's 'is name?"

"Uh..." Mush was momentarily distracted by a pretty girl brushing by him. As his eyes followed her journey down the street, he shrugged. "Yeah. Dugan. Tommy, I think. He ain't a bad guy, for a cop."

"I don't like 'im."

"Eh, gimme a break," he muttered, eyes still on the retreating figure, dark eyes studying the gentle sway of her hips. "You only don't like 'im cause you heard him talkin' about you that one time."

"Mush, he talks about _everyone_. He--"

The boys arrived at the entrance of Tibby's just as Mush held up a beefy hand to silence his friend. Whiney bastard. "Dugan's a _cop._ That's his job. To know things." He shook his head and yanked open the door. "Now get that puss off yer face. I ain't forcing ya to come with me. You're a free man." With that, he disappeared inside, leaving Snoddy outside to contemplate the snowflakes that had started to fall gently around him. Mush was right. He _was_ a free man.

He just wasn't a particularly independent one.

With a final sniffle, Snoddy yanked open the door and stepped inside the warm restaurant.

It didn't take him long to pick out his friends, even in the dim light of the cozy room. There was a pack of ragged, ill-dressed young men packed into a corner table near the kitchen door. And Tommy Dugan was holding court over them all.

He was young; younger then any cop the newsies had ever seen. The boys guessed he was maybe twenty, twenty-two at the most, and one of those types who only got the position because of family power in the local precinct. Not a terribly uncommon thing in the corruption-tinged New York City Police Department.

What _was_ uncommon about Tommy was that he never seemed to be _doing_ anything. The boys assumed his rookie status gave him the night beats, and that left their minds at peace. It was simply explained, his constant prescence in Tibby's. Simply explained, and simply accepted.

It certainly helped matters that Tommy was as interesting as any fellow they'd met, and always seemed to have the best stories; the juiciest, most scandalous gossip to be had on the city streets. That was really the drawing point for so many of his admirers. The stories. Cops knew everything.


	2. Chapter 2: A Story Worth Reporting

"You sellin' much today?" The newsie nodded a greeting, while the other hopped from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm.

"Nah. Too God damn cold. You?"

" Nope. Every sane human being is inside. Hey, you hear about Tunes?

"Tunes? No. What's the story?"

"Word on th' street is Tunes an' Denton have been getting to be more then just friends while she apprentices at da newspapah."

"Aw…gimme a break. Tunes an' Denton? He could be her Father."

"Hey, you know how it goes…long nights workin', close quarters…and you know how that broad is.

"I thought she was with Skittery? They seem so happy."

"Oh, sure, they're happy…but only 'cause Skittery don't know. I'm sure if he _did_ he'd be embarrassed as hell. I mean, _Denton?_ Please. Tunes an' ole Denty have been runnin' around town, eatin' in fancy resturants, dancin' in posh Halls, just to make sure they avoid the old crowd. But I guess it didn't woik."

"Jesus Christ…"

"Yeah. but hey, ya didn't hear it from me, eh? I doubt they want this spread around."

"Oh, a' course. I won't tell a soul."

A half-hour later the story was being delievered to eager ears in bursts of clouded breath.

Autumn wasn't usually one to spread gossip. In fact, she considered herself above all that. A better, more principled person. However, this particular story…this was just to good. Too juicy to _not_ pass on. Besides, didn't Jack deserve to know? He was close to two of the three parties involved, wasn't he? And he was the leader. Reason enough, Autumn kept repeating to herself as she hurried up the stairs of the Lodging House and into the boys bunkroom. Reason enough.

"Jack!" She said in a loud whisper, hoisting herself up onto Jack's already occupied bunk. She shook the blanketed mound. "Jack, wake up. It's nearly two."

"Huh? Wha—get th' hell outta here," Jack opened one eye and snarled up at the intruder. He hated to be woken up. Kloppman would tell anyone that would listen.

"Jack, honestly. You've been napping for an hour. It's lunch already." Autumn poked her boyfriend in the ribs and added nonchalantly, "Oh, and…there's something I need to tell you."

The slightly anxious tone of her usually steady, confident voice caused Jack to open both eyes and prop himself up on his elbows. He studied Autumn's pretty face carefully. "What is it?"

Under his steady gaze, she picked up the silver chain that was permanently around her neck and began to suck on it. A nervous habit. Maybe she shouldn't tell him. Skittery _was _one of his closest friends. Still…

"Have you seen Skittery lately?" Autumn's light blue eyes refused to meet Jack's, flitting around the messy bunkroom instead, searching for something to focus on.

"Yeah, last night. Me, him, Race an' Specs played a few rounds a poker at Tibby's. Why?"

"Was Tunes there, by any chance?"

"She may 'ave stopped by. Auty," he leaned forward,"What's goin' on?"

"She's been sleepin' with Denton." The words spilled out, and Autumn closed her eyes tightly, afraid of what sort of reaction they would bring. If they had been open,she would have seen all the color drain from Jack's usually tawny face. His mouth was slightly ajar, and he had to force down a swallow before he could find enough spit to speak.

"_What?"_

"I—I thought you should know. You an' Skittery are good friends…" She looked alarmed as Jack dropped his hands from their place on her shoulders and rubbed one of them over his forehead. This was harder then she thought it would be. Who knew Jack would be so…_emotional?_

"Holy _Christ._ Tunes and _Denton?_" He paused, looking up at her accusingly. "Where did you hear dis?"

"Me an' Bittah were sellin' in Central Park, and Socks came running up, all upset. She told us everything, said she heard it from bunches of people. People who saw them, Denton an' Tunes, _together_." Autumn shuddered at the thought. _Denton_, of all people.

Before she knew what was happening, Jack had tumbled out of bed, and now stood in the center of the room, jerking his pants on. Autumn watched cautiously from her perch. "Where are you going?"

"To find Skittery. He's probably punchin' holes in the wall right now." He paused to straighten his bandana. "If he's heard, that is."

"Oh, he's heard," Autumn assured her quickly retreating boyfriend, "trust me. Everyone's heard." Without another word, Jack ducked out the door, racing toward Tibby's as fast as he could.

As it happened, Skittery _had_ heard of his girlfriend's–or now ex-girlfriend's–sexual escapades with the distinguished Bryan Denton. And just as Jack had predicted, a few of the walls in Tibby's Restaurant now had fist-shaped holes decorating them.

Needless to say, the staff was not happy.

"The real kicker of the whole God damn thing is that it was _Denton._ It was only a couple months ago that he was our God damn _hero_." Racetrack Higgins shook his head and commenced chewing on his cigar, intermittently muttering about 'the dumb broad' and her antics.

"Race, shut yer trap, will ya? Your fucking blabbering ain't helping the situation none, " Bookie hissed, smacking her boyfriend on the arm. Sometimes that boy didn't have enough sense in him to just keep quiet.

The veins in Skittery's neck bulged as he threw himself into a chair. Almost instantly a glass of brown alcohol was pushed in front of him, but he shoved it away angrily. "I don't want a fuckin' drink. I want to see Tunes. Or Denton, that sonnovabitch." He added as an afterthought. Snoddy, who was sprawled in his chair trying to look concerned, sighed and peered around the crowded restarant. Suddenly, a thought hit him and he scrambled to his feet, intercepting Mush as he was returning to the table from a trip to the restroom.

"You seen Tommy Dugan around?"

"What?" Mush narrowed his eyes at his friend. "Dugan? Snoddy, who cares? I think we got bigger things to worry about." He shook his head and pushed by his friend to return to the group, leaving Snoddy standing by himself in the center of the room, mind racing as quickly as the waiters that were zipping around Tibby's.

"No one knows where Tunes is. _Conveniently enough._" Back at the table, Kid Blink cast an accusing glance toward the female members of the assembled.

"Can it, Blink." Bittah muttered, shooting daggers at him with vivid green eyes. "We already told ya. None of the girls know where she is."

"Yeah, sure ya don't," Blink retorted, obviously not buying it. "We all know how girls band together at times like this. Like a pack of God damn wolves."

Someone threw a dinner roll then, beaning Blink square on the head, and shouting erupted in the crowded corner table.

"HEY!" Jack, as far as he could see, had arrived just in time. Things were falling apart. "Everyone SHUT UP!" Silence fell not only across the collected newsies, but the entire restaurant. Jack looked around, a small smirk on his face.

Now _that _was power.

A few smaller newsies scurried away, leaving room for their revered leader, and Jack sat down slowly. "I'm _sure_ everyone has some place to _be_ right now," he said sternly, looking around.

"Da only place I gotta be is _right here_," Racetrack announced with a grin, causing Bookie to elbow him sharply in the ribs. He shot her a look. "What?"

Jack crossed his arms over his chest. Now was not the time for games, and the look on his face told the newsies as much. "_Out._ Now. Everyone except Skittery." A collective groan sounded from the table, yet slowly but surely, amidst the sound of chairs scraping and the clink of empty glass against wooden table, the table emptied. "How bout ya try sellin' some PAPERS?! You know, a little change of PACE!" He shouted to the dwindling crowd, only to be met with a few sarcastic mumbled responses. Selling papers? Who did he think he was, Pulitzer? They would sell papers on their own damn schedules, thank you very much.

Sighing, Jack settled himself next to his morose friend, taking it upon himself to down the glass of liquor that sat abandoned on the table. "I know where Tunes is."

At this, Skittery lifted his head. "What? Where? How?" He began to stand up, only to be pushed back down by Jack's firm hand.

"Skitts, don't do anything stupid. I'm only tellin' you 'cause you're my friend. And I think it was wrong, what she did."

"That's the fuckin' understatement of the year," Skittery muttered, pushing a handful of hair away from his scowling face. He rose, shrugging off Jack's hand and sliding out of the booth. "Where is she, Jack." He turned to his friend and stared at him with deadened eyes.

"The boathouse at Central Park. Saw her sneakin' over there on my way over, lookin' guilty as all hell," Jack said, tracing his fingers along the rim of the empty glass before him. He did not have to look up to know that his friend had run out the door as soon as the words had left his mouth.

Tunes buried her face in her hands and willed the tears stinging behind her eyes not to fall. This was a nightmare. A joke. How could people–no, her _friends _even–possibly think she was _sleeping_ with _Bryan Denton_? And where the hell did that sort of story come from?

She knew taking that job at the Sun Newspaper was a bad idea. Everyone made such a huge fuss over how she was trying to be better then everybody else. How she was just a lowly street rat, with big dreams that fit her current lifestyle about as well as an elephant in a mouse hole.

But really, all she wanted to do was learn the ropes. Tunes hoped, maybe, that she could someday make something out of herself. After all, one couldn't be a newsie forever. And Denton, a distant and unfamiliar figure up until she began to work at the office, was so kind to her. Like a father, practically. A mentor. A big brother, at least.

This was why she was so upset. She liked Bryan as a friend, and even more importantly, she liked her place at the office. If she lost that…well, Tunes would never become anything worthwhile. She suddenly had a frightening vision of herself, forty years down the road, a tired, overweight, unhappy mother of a herd of screaming children, living in a tiny apartment and working at a factory for 12 hours a day.

_No._ She could not end up like that. Never.

A rough hand seized her shoulders and forced her to a standing position shattered the picture. Looking up, Tunes came face to face with just the person she was trying to avoid: Skittery.

She knew his temper, and also knew full well that no matter what she said, no matter how wrong the story was, he would believe it. He would believe it and make her pay, because boys like Skittery didn't know how to have faith, or trust, or anything else like that. Tunes began to tremble as his grip tightened. "You whore. You think it's okay to cheat on me? With fucking _Denton_?" Skittery said slowly, the words low and dangerous enough to make Tunes' mouth go dry.

"Skittery, I didn't-"

"Shut up. I don't want excuses." He shook her slightly, and Tunes glared at him, not able to help herself. No one spoke to her like that.

"Then why'd you come find me, Skitts?" She spat, eyes flashing. In one solid motion, Skittery slapped her hard across the face, sending Tunes crashing to a heap on the cold, wet ground. She let out one surprised yelp, but then fell silent, fury and the slap both turning her cheeks pink.

"To tell ya that I think you're trash. Garbage. Lower then dirt. You're a goddamn whore. And I'm sure I don't even need ta say dis, but we're through. Done." He looked down at Tunes, who had pushed herself up on her elbows and now tried to glare at Skittery with quickly filling eyes. Something inside Skittery fractured then, and he tried hard to keep his grasp on his anger. He might have loved Tunes, maybe, but now was not the time to think such things.

"Skittery, please. If you would just listen..." she said, hating to beg but doing it anyway.   
"I've done enough listening for today, Tunes," Skittery said in a tone that was anger edged with a hint of sorrow. Disappointment, at the least. "Listenin' to everyone I see: 'did you hear about Tunes? Cheatin' on Skittery, sleepin' with God damn _Bryan Denton'_." His voice rose once again, and Tunes cowered against the wall, but he took a deep breath and clamped his eyes shut. He couldn't hit her again. The first time was bad enough. "I'm going back to the Lodging House."

"Your gonna see me sooner or later, Skittery. We live in the same place, remember? Why don't we just-"

"No. I've had enough, Tunes. I'm done." Skittery interrupted, turning to go. He could not bear to be around her anymore. Every time he looked at Tunes' face, images of her and Denton swirled through his brain like a poisonous fog. It was too much to handle. "And if your expectin' a warm welcome back at the House, well, I'd say you're sorely mistaken. No one's on you side for this one, Tunes. _No one._" With that, Skittery hurried away, jamming his hands into his pockets and trying not to hear the sobs that were rising from the girl still sprawled on the boathouse floor

Tunes watched him go through a veil of tears, trying to process what exactly he had just said to her. No one on her side? Surely he was the one who was mistaken. Her friends would always stand by her. The tried and true ones that had stood by her for just about everything…They would surely understand the absurdity of this whole situation.

Wouldn't they?

Three days later, Tunes happened to run into Bryan Denton, who was rushing down the steps of the main office of the New York Sun Newspaper. She cursed silently, but headed toward him, determined to sort everything out. They had not talked since that awful day when everything fell apart. Tunes hadn't been back to work since.

His head was down, eyes concentrating on the ground under his feet as she approached him and touched his arm lightly. Flinching at the tap as if he had been scalded, Denton looked up, and froze in his tracks upon seeing who had stopped him. "Tunes," he said, more of a statement than a greeting.

"H'llo, Bryan. Listen, I just wanted to let you know-" She stopped suddenly, the expression twisting his face causing her throat to close up. Something was terribly wrong. "What is it?"

"I'm leaving." He said with a sigh, trying his best to avoid her gaze.

"Leaving? W-what do you mean? On a trip? Assignment?"

"No, ah... Permanently. I've been relocated. The Sun has a sister publication down in Baltimore and I'm leaving this evening."

"But…why?" The open confusion on Tunes' face made Bryan cringe. Was she really this naïve?

"My boss confronted me this morning concerning a very shocking allegation."

"Shit," Tunes muttered, finally realizing what the matter was. She didn't think it would go this far, not in a million years. "Shit, shit, shit."

Denton watched her, face blank. A promising job lost all because he was gave some teenager the wrong impression. "My words exactly. Look, Tunes, if I ever said or did anything that might have suggested…"

"No! No," she said, shaking her head adamantly, red hair gleaming in the pale sunlight. "It's an awful rumor. I don't even know how it got started, honestly. I never said anythin' like that to anyone. I never even _thought_ about stuff like that." The words spilled from Tunes' mouth a little to eagerly. She'd had precious few opportunities for conversation in the past few days, what with practically each and every newsie in the Lodging House acting as if she wasn't there. Sure, Crutchy had engaged her in discourse once or twice, but soon even the patient Tunes tired of his babbling soliloquies concerning how people thought he was 'faking it.'

"I trust you, Tunes. You're a great gi-young woman," Denton said, "but the only ones who know this all isn't true is you and me. My boss refused to hear me out. He insisted such relationships were unprofessional and unacceptable in his office, and told me he had witnesses who…" He paused to clear his throat. "Caught us in a compromising situation, if you understand what I mean."

"Oh!" Tunes blinked, utterly surprised. "But we never…"

"I know, but you know how stories get passed around, and events become falsified. Maybe one of those late nights we were working together…" He shook his head quickly. "I don't even want to think about it. The bottom line is, I'm done. Out. Off to Baltimore in four hours."

"Oh, Bryan, I'm so sorry," Tunes mumbled, numb from the shock of what she was hearing. "This was all my fault. I never should have asked for the job."

"Aw, hey," Denton reached up to pat her on the arm, but stopped midway, his hand hovering in the air for a moment before dropping back to his side. Maybe being so friendly right now wasn't such a bright idea. "Don't say that. It wasn't your fault. Gossip spares no one. Who knew we'd be the victims this time?" Encouraged by a weak smile from Tunes, he continued. "Baltimore's a great city. Don't worry about me."

Tunes heaved a shaky sigh, but nodded. "Well, I guess this is goodbye."

"I suppose," Bryan answered. He suppressed the urge to reach out and give the girl a tight hug. It looked like she needed one. Instead, a hand was offered. "Next time I'm in New York…"

"Look me up," Tunes finished, shaking his hand as warmly as she could muster. She wanted to reach out and hug him. It looked like he needed it.

Bryan Denton nodded, and started to walk down the street again, dodging the quickly thickening lunchtime crowd. Tunes watched him until he was swallowed up by the mass of people, then lowered herself on a deserted set of front steps, with nothing to return to but a houseful of hostility and loneliness. She wondered how long it would take for them to start talking to her again, even a little bit.


	3. Part 3

"You'll never guess what's going on."

The newsie dropped his arm, newspaper clenched in his fist. Selling wasn't going well today. Hell, it wasn't going at all. "Yer right. So why don'tcha just tell me, eh"

"Socks, ya know her"

"Of course I do…"

"She's pregnant."

"Shut the hell up. How do _you_ know"

"Heard her talkin' about it last night."

"Jesus Christ. And the father, it's Davey"

"As far as I know—but you know how those girls play around."

"Yeah, yeah. Jeez. _Pregnant?_"

"You heard me."

It was just another Tuesday morning for Socks O'Connor. She rolled out of bed, stumbled half asleep to the distribution center, collected her daily supply of papers, and headed to her usual selling spot: a sunny patch of sidewalk adjacent to Central Park, where she could watch the skeletons of the trees dance as the winter wind swirled through them.

And that was where all normality ceased.

Just as she began to shout out the pitiful headline, someone seized Socks' elbow, causing her to turn and investigate, green eyes sparkling with irritation.

"Socks! Thank _God_ I found ya. I just heard." Cyanne Colpitts, out of breath and cheeks pink from the cold air, had an alarming expression of concern on her face.

"Heard?" Socks shook off the other girl's hand from her arm with a frown. "What are you talking about"

"Come on, Socksie, you don't need to play dumb with me" Cyanne said, a knowing smile flashing across her face. She reached out to pat Socks' flat stomach. "So, when are you due?"

Socks' jaw dropped the moment she realized just what exactly her friend was implying. Good lord, the girl thought she was pregnant. Trying to choke down a surprised chuckle, she shook her head. "Oh, Cyanne, I'm not—"

"Oh, say no more. I know you don't want this spread around…won't tell a soul." Cyanne placed a hand over her heart and winked at her before disappeared into the crowd, leaving a very confused Socks standing alone on the sidewalk.

_Pregnant?_

She laughed again, though this time it sounded somewhat hysterical, and raised her arm to wave the paper wildly over her head, determined to concentrate on doing her job rather then the strange dialogue that had just occurred. Besides, she didn't have _time_ for shit like that, for God's sake. Pregnant. Please. Who'd believe something as ridiculous as that?

By the time 3:00 rolled around, the bizarre conversation Socks had had with Cyanne that morning was ringing loudly in her ears, despite all attempts to banish it from her brain. She had brushed it off at first, attributing Cyanne's odd words to her free-flying imagination, convincing herself they were no more then a strange fantasy or a practical joke, most likely. However, as morning turned to afternoon and ominous clouds crowded the already gray sky, Socks was having second thoughts. Every person she greeted on her way back to the Lodging House appraised her with a wide-eyed and curious gaze, much to her surprise and frustration. As she entered the girls bunkroom, Socks was so preoccupied with trying to decipher what was the matter that she failed to see Bittah standing right in front of her, arms crossed over her chest, a scowl affixed to her face.

"Socks" she began, but Socks interrupted, in no mood to have yet another peculiar conversation she could sense was coming.

"Where's David?"

Bittah shrugged slightly. "I dunno, no one's here but me. Listen—"

"No" retorted Socks simply, pushing by her and heading towards her bunk. Bittah followed, determined to unearth the truth... or at least get all the juicy details.

"I just want you to know that I heard, and I…" she paused to watch Socks pull on a threadbare jacket and rake hair out of her face with her fingers"…I can't believe you, Socks. Honestly. You, of all people. I thought you would be the one who _wouldn't_ fuck up."

Socks sent a chilling glare in Bittah's direction, but didn't stop moving. She had more important things to do then stand there and receive a lecture on morals from _Bittah_, of all people.

Without a word to the other girl, who was still standing with arms crossed over her chest and a disappointed expression on her freckled face, Socks hurried out the door, on her way to the one place she was convinced David had to be: Tibby's.

He wasn't there. Socks looked around once more from her station by the doorway. The investigation only proved to her again what she was trying desperately to deny. David Jacobs was not at Tibby's. Uttering an exasperated sigh, she walked toward the corner table, toward the usual crowd of familiar faces that were sitting there, packed in like sardines.

"…And I _also_ heard that she don't even know if Dave is really the father"

Snippets of conversation slid into Socks' ears like poison. Arriving at the table so quietly that barely anyone took notice, save Illusion and Gypsy, who immediately shut their mouths and lowered their eyes, Socks waited a moment, then slammed her palms down on the stained wooden table, causing a surprised silence to fall over the assembled.

"Where…is…David." She said, each word heavy and threatening. When no one answered right away, Socks let out a frustrated sigh. "Am I speaking Chinese? Where is he?"

Mush Meyers cleared his throat, and all eyes turned to watch him expectantly. "He ah…well, he ran off a little after noon…said he had important things to do" He said carefully, before glancing at Socks and shrugging. "Haven't heard from him since. Sorry."

Murmurs of hesitant agreement sounded from the around the table. No one had seen David since right after lunch. He had hurried off, looking like he had seen a ghost. Or maybe it was visions of his future children that had turned his face such a terrible shade of white?

"You feeling okay, Socks?" Someone asked, the ridiculing tone unmistakable. Around the booth, laughter was choked down. "You know, a woman in your condition ought to be lying down…right?" Tommy Dugan leaned forward, peering at Socks with an expression of innocence on his ruddy face.

"I—I—" Socks stammered, feeling her cheeks get hot, a rush of anger and humiliation flooding her veins. As hard as she tried, no words would come out of her mouth, and she was stuck standing before the table opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish. A few people chuckled slightly, but most just stared, unsure of what to do or say. This was their friend, after all. They should be sympathetic or…at least take pity on her.

No, scratch that. It was her own fault she got intosuch amess. Everyone knew that babies didn't just pop into someone's stomach like magic. Sure,maybe the exact science of it allwas a little fuzzy, but everyone knew the basics. Slowly, unsure gazes turned to ones filled with disappointment, criticism, and disdain. It was her own fault. Who was stupid enough to let themselves get _pregnant_, of all things?

What a way to ruin your life.

Choking back confused sobs, Socks turned and fled out of the restaurant, her hair flying behind her like an auburn flag. Tommy Dugan looked around the table cautiously before speaking again. "Jeez...alls I did was ask a question. Touchy girl."

She had just begun to shove her spare outfit into the filthy carpet-bag she had found in a trash heap months before, thinking it might be handy someday when she wanted to get away from everything, when she heard the bunkroom door open.

_Wonderful._

Socks did not turn around. She had just gotten back to normal, after that ridiculous emotional fit that had snuck up on her in Tibby's. No way was some jackass she had until very recently considered a friend going to make her lose her cool again, not a chance. Shaking her head, she focused on trying to shut the bag that sat before her on the bed, refusing to close, taunting her with that wide open mouth, overflowing with clothes and other various things. Since when did she have so much goddamn stuff?

"Lily?"

There was only one person who called her by her real name. There was only one person who she would _let_ call her her real name. Hell, that was one of the reasons she loved him so much. He was different. David Jacobs did not have the _street_ oozing out of every action he did, every word he said. He was interested in more then just finding a dark and isolated alleyway so they could be alone. David was going to be something, go somewhere in life. And Socks loved him for it.

No dumb nicknames for him, either. Just the straight truth. David didn't have any reason to run from his past, and what's more, he didn't care if Socks O'Connor did or not.

When Socks refused to turn around, afraid that the tears welling up in her eyes would scare David away, he reached up and took hold of her arm, turning her around himself. "Lily..."

"_No_" she muttered, wrenching away from his grasp and walking across the room, determined to put some space between them, thinking that maybe that might make things easier.

"Look, Lily, before you say anything…" David followed her resolutely, hands reaching out for her. God, this was hard. So hard. But the right thing to do.

All of a sudden, he was down on one knee, clutching Socks' hands in his own trembling one. She stared at him, mouth agape. Surely, he wasn't…

"Lillian Elizabeth Christine O'Connor, will you marry me?" The words spilled out from David's lips. They sounded practiced. He looked up at her expectantly, waiting for an answer. Any answer. God. Waiting was the worst part.

"David, I—"

"I know we're young," he interrupted, rising to his feet but still holding tightly to Socks' hands, "but I love you and…I want this baby to have a family and a home. I'm doing the right thing here, Lily. _We're_ doing the right thing. Marry me. I'll give you a good life. I will…or at least, I'll try to. I'll try."

_God,_ David thought, _those eyes._ They gave nothing away. What he wouldn't give to have just a glimpse, a fleeting look, at what was going on up in that head of hers. The silence that his speech was met with was quickly becoming unbearable. Did she think this was easy? Jesus, was she beginning to cry?

She was. The tears dripped down her cheeks unbidden and unwanted. Lord, she hated to cry.

"David, I'm not pregnant. I swear. I don't know how that got started.I'm not pregnant."

"_What?"_


	4. Part 4

"So have you heard the latest? Turns out Snoozah's got some _serious_ skeletons in 'er closet…"

"Skeletons? What are you talkin' about?"

"Ya know last summer, when the strike was in full swing..."

"Sure..."

"Ya know how she wasn't around during it? Told Jack she had to go help her dyin' grandmother or something."

"So what? She had to go help out 'er family. It was understandable."

"She didn't."

The newsie lowered the glass she had been sipping liquor out of. "Huh?"

"She didn't go help out her family. She lied."

"What?"

"She worked for Pulitzer…as some kinda informant. A spy. She leaked information about what the newsies were doin'."

"Holy _shit_, you sure?"

"That's what I heard."

It was all very odd. No one would look Snoozah in the eye. Not her closest friends, hell, not even the people she considered _enemies_. It was a very strange feeling, Snoozah thought, to walk down the street, a pile of newspapers on her shoulder, and have each and every person she saw avoid her stare. What was the matter with them all? She had thought newsies stuck together.

So maybe that sounded hypocritical, coming from her. No one had to know that.

The barrier of silence was broken when Snoozah finally lost her temper. She stomped up to Illusion, who was lounging on one of the broken down chairs placed haphazardly in the front room of the Lodging House and ripped the book that had been sitting on her lap out of her grasp. Slightly annoyed at the interruption—she had just gotten to her favorite place in the novel—Illusion looked up, her exasperated expression changing to one of shock when she realized who the book-snatcher was.

"What the—"

"What the _hell_ is going on?" Snoozah demanded, cutting her off. She didn't need any bullshit right now; she was at the end of her rope as it was.

Illusion blinked for a moment, seeming to mull this question over, before crossing her arms and shrugging. "I don't know what you're talking about." Her face was expressionless as she studied the girl standing before her.

"Cut the crap, Illusion. People 'ave been acting like I'm invisible the whole God damn day. Now I'll ask you again, and you better answer me this time: What the _hell_ is goin' on?"

In a huff, Illusion rose from her sedentary position, brushing hair from her spinach-colored eyes as she did. "I think if you really want to know, Snoozah, you'll go talk to Jack." She smiled sweetly as she seized the book from Snoozah's hand. "He'll explain everything, I'm _sure_."

"Where is he?"

Illusion was already halfway up the stairs, but she paused, glaring at Snoozah over her shoulder. "Take a wild guess."

Snoozah burst into Tibby's in such a panic that she nearly mowed down a bewildered-looking couple as she did so. Choosing to ignore their whiney complaints of the "rude and uncouth lowlifes" that were taking over their fair city rather then argue, Snoozah pushed by them, craning her neck to seek out Jack Kelly's familiar face.

It didn't take very long for her to pick him out of the late-lunchtime crowd. He was laughing, rather loudly, over something one of the others had said as the crowd ofnewsies hunched around their usual corner table. A haze of cigar smoke hung over their capped heads, and Snoozah thought she saw the flash of playing cards from her position at the front of the room. Wonderful. She was interrupting a card game.

Yet she was determined to discover what was going on, and with clenched fists Snoozah marched up to the table and cleared her throat loudly, loudly enough for each person to stop in their conversation and peer up at her. No one spoke for a brief moment, until Gypsy, who was sitting removed from the card-playing boys decided it might as well be her. No one else seemed to have the balls to do it. " Snoozah. What a uh…_surprise._" She sent her best fake smile in the other girl's direction.

It went unnoticed. Everything did, in fact, except for Jack and his smug expression. Snoozah stared pointedly at him. "Jack, we need to talk."

"Hm?" Jack murmured, pretending that he had just realized Snoozah was standing before him. "Oh, sure thing, Snoozah…after I'm done here."

"No. We need to talk r_ight now_." The commanding tone in her voice was unmistakable. All eyes turned, shocked, to glare at Snoozah. As if she needed something else to make them dislike her.

"You gonna let one of your newsies talk to you like that, Jackie-boy?" Spot Conlon, up in Manhattan that day to attend to some business with his girlfriend Stripes in tow, arched an eyebrow. If this were _his_ territory, the girl would've been down and unconscious on the floor about ten seconds after she spat such challenging words. Spot smiled at the thought.

Jack shifted, somewhat uncomfortable. Snoozah was right, they _did_ need to talk. But now? Here? The girl seemed determined to make Jack look like an ass in front of Spot Conlon. He could just imagine the rumor mill working...Jack Kelly, leader of Manhattan and the newsies strike, gets bossed around by scrappy little girls. "I _said_ it'd have to wait, Snoozah." A muscle twitched in his cheek as he looked at her.

Chiriklo, a quiet girl with thick black curls spilling down her back, stood up slowly. She rarely spoke, a trait that imbued all sorts of power in the rare words that _did_ come out of her mouth. "This seems to be a matter between Jack and…" she paused, looking at Snoozah for a moment with a disdainful expression. "…Her. I don't want to get involved, to be honest. _I _am leaving." Her heavily accented statement seemed to turn some switch in the rest of the newsies. Slowly, Gypsy, Bumlets, Snitch and Cyanne rose from their seats and drifted off, sending glares in Snoozah's direction as they did. Soon the corner table was empty save for Spot and Stripes, who both watched Snoozah with gazes painted with a mixture of dislike and disappointment.

She cast a suspicious glance toward the Brooklynites. "I—"

"Anything you have to say to me, Spot can hear too," Jack announced. Stripes nodded, smirking slightly, which made Snoozah bristle even more. It seemed that a condescending attitude was a side-effect of sleeping with the diminutive Brooklyn leader. Among other things, Snoozah was sure. Other itching, burning, uncomfortable things.

She almost smiled at the though, but caught herself. Instead, she sent her best glare to the trio sitting before her.

"I want to know what the hell is goin' on," she said, "no one's said a word to me since the distribution center this morning, and…I figured you'd be the best person to ask about it."

"Yeah," Jack nodded, "well…" he cleared his throat, wondering how to word this so that Snoozah wouldn't jump on him, fists flying, the moment he finished. "…I've been talkin' to a lot of the others and…well, I think it's time for you to leave." He paused to let this news sink in.

It didn't take long. "What? Leave? What are you talking about?"

"Well" Jack began, struggling with the words. He wasn't a malevolent guy by nature. He found no pleasure in being a cruel and cold leader. No one could say that Jack Kelly abused his position. Not really. But in this particular situation...well, things were different. Snoozah deserved everything she got.

"Let me, Jack," Spot cut in, licking his lips like a lion going in for the kill. He lived for stuff like this. "To be blunt, uh, _Snoozah_, is it?" She opened her mouth to protest his patronizing manner, but Spot held up a hand. "The Manhattan newsies don't tolerate traitors. That's it, cut an' dry." He sat back, Jack nodding in silent agreement.

Snoozah felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. They knew.

"Traitor? What are ya talkin' about?" She had to at least try to get herself out of this mess.

"Cut the crap, Snoozah. We all know what ya did last summer. During the strike." It seemed that Jack had snapped into angry-leader mode suddenly, and now he glared openly at her. "If I remember correctly, you had to go an' help your grandmother in Boston. She was sick, right? Dying, even." Snoozah could only nod, blinking back the tears that were glazing her eyes. Her quick wit was lost. She felt like she was drowning. "Well" Jack continued, his voice becoming louder and angrier as he did so, "unless your dying grandma was God damn _Pulitzer_, that was quite a fast one you pulled on us. No wonder we had so many problems…what with you leaking every move we made to that maniac"

Snoozah swallowed hard. She had nothing to say because, frankly, Jack was right. She _had_ gone to work for Pulitzer during the strike. She was starving and scared and young…a new recruit to the work of selling newspapers, with no emotional connection to the raggedy group, and no intention of sticking around after the summer faded away. But…things changed, as they tend to do, and Snoozah found herself remaining in Manhattan, praying her wrong choice would stay a secret. At her stunned silence, Jack shook his head.

"You collect your stuff and say your goodbyes'…I wantcha out by five o'clock."

Snoozah shut her eyes for a brief moment to block out the sight of Stripes and Spot smirking at each other. Then, with a heaving chest, she turned and ran back to the lodging house, where she hoped she would run into no one.

Much to her dismay, however, she did run into someone while shoving her meager belongings into a satchel that had seen better days at the Manhattan Lodging House. Specs Halloway walked up behind her without a sound and coughed slightly, making Snoozah spin around, fists clenched, immediately on the defense.

She visibly relaxed upon seeing it was her boyfriend who was standing before her, and not anyone else. Her arms automatically went to encircle Specs' neck, but he intercepted the movement, pushing them down, shaking his head sadly.

"I just wanted to say goodbye" he said softly. Snoozah's face fell, and without so much as a word she turned again to her bunk, shoving her spare shirt into the bag that lay on the bed. She could hear Specs emit a heavy sigh behind her and tried hard to remain unaffected. If he did not care enough to stand up for his girl, he certainly did not care enough, period. And Snoozah wasted six months on him? What a joke. "Snoozah, As much as I care about you, there's nothing I can do about this." He hesitated, then asked, "it's really true?" A hint of hopefulness colored his question.

"Yeah, it's fuckin' true," she spat. There was no use lying now. They wouldn't believe her if she tried to lie, anyway. All she had to focus on now was getting the hell out of there.

"Christ..." Specs breathed, "why'd you do it, Snoozah? Huh? Why"

Snoozah slammed her bag closed and turned once again to face him. "I'm just a terrible person, is all." She shot back sarcastically. He would never understand. Specs, who worked things out so simply. This was his home. His friends. Hell, they were his family. He could not fit his white-knight mind around such a thing as betrayal. Never would be able to. With a frustrated sigh Snoozah pushed by him, hoping that he would remain in the bunkroom as she left.

No such luck.

"Where you gonna go?" he asked, following her down the stairs to the front door. She paused, a hand on the knob.

"I dunno. I'll find a job somewhere nice and far away. Don't you worry about me." Again, the sarcasm in her voice was hard to miss. "Have a nice life, Specs."

With that, she was out the door and out of Specs' life forever.

It had been maybe a week since Snoozah DeMasi had been expelled from the close-knit group of Manhattan newsies, and it had taken even less time for her to realize that the rest of New York City was most certainly _not_ like the little slice the newsies dominated. She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten, which scared her somewhat, but what scared her more was the complete lack of jobs to be had in the dismal city for a young lady of questionable history. There were over a million people who lived there; surely, Snoozah thought, she could find a decent paying job. It didn't even have to be a respectable one.

Driven nearly to breaking point by hunger and cold, Snoozah's common sense melted away as easily as the snowflakes that met their fate on the dirty sidewalk. Picking out an oblivious-looking vendor selling delicious smelling hot sausages near Grand Central Station, she strolled up, grabbed a few, and began to hurry away. It took perhaps fifteen seconds for the vendor, a huge, hairy Italian, to seize her wrist, screaming something very loudly in his native tongue, and thirty more for two police officers to come running over to investigate the commotion. It was as if Snoozah was watching the scene happen to someone else. The shouting vendor, the cops each taking hold of one of her puny arms, dragging her off to the nearest police station. _Caught?_ Snoozah never got caught. Her world was crashing down around her.

At the station, she was pushed into a hard wooden chair by one of the officers, a middle-aged man with thick black eyebrows and an even thicker waistline, and told not to move under penalty of extreme pain. Numb, Snoozah nodded. She didn't have the energy to care anymore. At least now she was warm.

Soon, however, as her extremities regained feeling and her brain thawed, Snoozah became more aware of her surrounds. As her dark eyes flitted around the busy room, a familiar face caught her eye. He was seated in a similar wooden chair to the one she was perched on, his face angled towards the floor. Snoozah stared openly, gears in her mind cranking. Suddenly it hit her, just as the pudgy officer that seemed to be in charge of dealing with her returned.

"Why isn't he wearing a uniform?" Snoozah asked, pointing across the room to the slumped figure.

"Him?" The officer's gaze followed her finger, a quizzical expression on his face. "He's just a local loony. Why would he be wearing a uniform?" He shook his head, grabbing her arm. "C'mon now, young lady. It's off to the refuge with you."

Snoozah's heart skipped a beat, and she opened her mouth to explain to the officer before her that of course, that man across the room, Tommy Dugan, _was_ a cop. Of course he was. She knew him.

But her tongue felt like lead in her mouth, and as much as she wanted to say anything at all, not a sound came out. Instead, she stood up obediently, weary and exhausted, thinking now only of perhaps how she might get something to eat at the refuge. Something hot. That'd be nice.

In silence, the officer led her toward the door, pushing herinto a cart headed for the one building in the city each and every child of the streets feared.


	5. Part 5

After the Socks incident, Snoddy gave up selling papers for awhile. He had more important things to do, anyway. Finally, he was going to prove himself to Jack and the boys. Finally, he was going to _do_ something.

Snoddy Elliot was on a mission.

Pushing his way through the usual lunchtime crowd at Tibby's on a dreary Thursday afternoon, Snoddy was determined to share the fruits of his labor, with just about anyone who would listen. And if they didn't pay attention to him, as they so often did?

Well, this was a serious enough situation that Snoddy would just have to _make_ them listen…somehow.

Following the route he could probably walk with his eyes shut, Snoddy headed toward the rear of the room, toward the corner table, which today, mysteriously enough, was not completely crowded. He slid into a chair and grabbed a roll off Racetrack's plate.

"Hey guys, we need to talk." His serious tone was unheeded by the others. The boys acted as if he hadn't said anything at all, and this reaction irked Snoddy considerably.

"Hiya Snoddy, where you been lately?" Stripes, who for unknown reasons had been hanging around Manhattan quite a bit, grinned at him from across the table. Snoddy peered at her for a moment. Something was different about her today…

It took him only a few seconds to realize that this was the first time he had seen her without Spot. Usually they were always together, always touching, _always_ sickening. Shaking his head in mild disbelief, Snoddy turned to Jack, who was talking rather rapidly at him.

"…And so I figured you had something better to do. I mean, I see you at the distribution center every morning for the last six years, and then you disappear for practically a week straight. Have you even _been _sellin' lately?"

"No," Snoddy began, only to be cut off by an angry Racetrack, who had apparently just discovered his dinner roll kidnaped. "Hey! Give that back, ya bum. _I_ paid for that, thankyouverymuch."

Snoddy rolled his eyes and tossed the half-eaten roll back to its rightful owner. Race sent him a scathing look then proceeded to devour the rest of the roll in the matter of seconds. From across the table, Snitch started to chuckle.

"You look like a rat when you make that face..."

"_Anyway_," Snoddy continued, determined to get the important news to his friends. "No, I haven't really been sellin'. I've been busy with other things."

"Oh, Mr. High an' Mighty, too good to sell papes, huh?" One could always depend on Stripes to add some zest to the conversation. Snoddy glared at her.

"You sure are one to be talkin' about being high and mighty, Stripes. Ain't Spot expectin' ya home soon?" Stripes sent him a withering glare, but her mouth snapped shut all the same. With a shake of his head, Snoddy plowed on. "Listen, I found out somethin'. Somethin' important," he said quickly, hoping no one would interrupt him—again.

Jack sat back, lacing his fingers behind his head and watching Snoddy with a mildly interested expression. "Okay, Snoddy. What's up?"

Snoddy took a deep breath. The moment he had been waiting for. Finally, he would prove his worth to his friends. Finally. "Well I've been doing a little investigating, and you'll never believe what I found out."

"I never did like guessing games," Racetrack muttered, still sore over the dinner roll. "Spit it out, will ya?"

"You know Tommy Dugan?" Heads bobbed around the table. Tommy had been at that very table just this morning, the ubiquitous cup of coffee clenched in his huge hands. "Well," Snoddy continued, "turns out he ain't really a cop."

The reaction that this statement received was a little different then what he had expected. No jaws dropped, no one jumped to their feet in rage, and no one looked around in utter disbelief. A few chuckles sounded around the table, while most of the others simply blinked, half in shock, half in confusion.

"Not a cop?" Illusion, who Snoddy hadn't even noticed was sitting next to Stripes until that moment, leaned forward on her elbows. "Well if he ain't a cop, what the hell is he?" She gazed evenly at him, one eyebrow raised, face a portrait of skepticism.

"He's a lunatic is what he is," Snoddy retorted defensively, inviting even more sniggers to erupt from the assembled. "I know it sounds crazy, but I swear it's the truth. Here, look!" With a flourish, he withdrew a stack of official looking documents from the pile of newspapers sitting beside him. Fanning them out on the table, Snoddy looked around triumphantly. "Files from the police station."

Jack, who had picked up a sheet and was skimming it over, paused to peer up at him. "How'd you manage to swipe these?"

Snoddy's shrugged, making no effort to hide the smugness in his voice. "I've got my connections," he said with a smirk. Slowly, unsure hands reached out to pick up the papers, and as the incriminating facts were read, eyes around the table widened in disbelief.

_Thomas James Dugan: Two years imprisoned for arson, attempted murder. Sixteen month confinement at Silver Valley Mental Institution, Silver Valley, Massachusetts. Diagnosed clinically insane, with violent tendencies. Cured and released on September 25, 1899._

Jack, as always, was the first to find words. "_Holy shit,_" he breathed,"this ain't no joke." He released the paper from his fingers, letting it flutter to the tabletop like a dying autumn leaf.

"What're we gonna do, Jack?" Racetrack muttered, turning to face his trusted leader. "We gotta do _somethin_', right?"

"Of course we gotta do somethin'," Illusion interjected, shaking the paper clenched in her fist for emphasis, "this guy's dangerous. Says so right here: _violent tendencies. Attempted murder._"

Jack shut his eyes, lowering his head to cradle it in his hands. A heavy, tense silence settled over the booth, and Snoddy's hands crept out to rest tentatively on the array of papers, inky fingers splayed wide in an almost protective position, preserving the precious pieces of dangerous information, fearing they'd somehow get damaged.

The sound of someone clearing their throat seemed louder then it should have as it shattered the quiet that hung over the cluster of newsies. Each pair of eyes, clouded with bewilderment and a hint of fear, snapped upward to where the noise had come from.

"Hey guys, did—" The usual cheerful greeting died prematurely upon Tommy Dugan's lips as his eyes fell upon the papers sitting on the scarred tabletop.

He stood there, staring dumbly at the papers Snoddy had delivered, for a minute or two. Blue eyes focusing and unfocusing, mouth hanging open. No one moved.

Finally, a high-pitched, hysterical sounding laugh burbled forth from Tommy Dugan. The newsies watched him with wide, wary eyes as he swept his hand through the air, motioning to the tabletop. "Those ain't no newspapers," he said sharply.

The silence persisted. Everyone was to afraid to speak. To afraid to be the spark that would cause the explosion that was very clearly growing in Tommy Dugan right at that moment.

Finally, Jack's head snapped up. His face was scared, and tired, and as Snoddy studied him he realized that their fearless leader was perhaps not as fearless as he had always thought. "The gig's up, Tommy," he said slowly, trying to keep his tone neutral, trying to keep his quaking nerves from making his voice tremble. It was a hard thing, having to always be the brave one. The leader.

"Gig? _Gig?_ What gig ya talkin' about, Kelly? There ain't no gig. There ain't no..." having found Jack to be immune to his words, Tommy Dugan turned to the others. "Racetrack, Blink...girls, there ain't no gig. What _gig?_" The more he spoke, the higher his voice began. Soon it was wavering and shaking, unsteady as its owner's state of mind.

The stocky young man spun on his heels and rushed towards the door, still babbling. "_Gig?_ Don't know what the hell you're talking about, gig. I'm just a copper on the beat. A copper...on the beat."

A white clad waiter placed a comforting hand on Tommy's arm, only to be flung into a wall. "NO! Don't fuckin' touch me. _I'm just a copper on the beat_!" roared Tommy.

And then he pushed his way outside into the cold, smack into Mush Meyers, who's stomach was grumbling so loudly he thought you could hear it clear to Brooklyn.

The well-built newsie was caught off-guard, but months in the boxing ring kept him steady on his feet. He reached out his hands and settled them on Tommy's bulging shoulders. "Heya buddy," he greeted, trying to steady his stumbling cohort, "What's the matter?"

But the only thing Tommy had to answer with was gibberish. Eyes wild, he pulled a knife from his waist. The blade glinted dully in the winter sunlight before it was plunged into Mush Meyer's shoulder.

The windowless, closet sized room sitting at the end of the upstairs hall that had up until then been ignored was now filled with people. Fitting to it's newly adopted 'Sick Room' title, the space was devoid of any traces of dust or dirt. Kloppman had spent nearly four hours cleaning it up when he heard what had happened.

The story, predictably, had made the rounds on the streets; there was not a newsie from the Battery to Queens who hadn't heard of what happened that afternoon, right in broad daylight, outside of Tibby's Restaurant in Manhattan. What was surprising was how the accuracy of the story remained intact, as if it was to precious a tale to be altered, even by the most imaginative and manipulative of minds.

And so each street-rat in each grimy borough relayed the same story, with little to no changes: how, after Tommy Dugan saw the newsies sitting there in Tibby's with his police files spread before them like some kind of incriminating feast, he completely lost it (not that he was sane before that, of course. This fact was now common knowledge to the society of adolescents who controlled the city streets). Without a word, he bolted from the restaurant, and, as it happened, right smack into Mush Meyers, who was going to meet a few friends for a late lunch. Mush would later recall, with great gusto and a flourish of drama, how Tommy studied him with wild, disoriented eyes, and once recognition clicked in his demented mind, began babbling incoherently. As Mush, that noble fellow that he most certainly was, reached out to comfort the poor raving lunatic, Dugan pulled a knife from his waistband, and with a bloodcurdling yell, plunged the blade into Mush's flesh, about six inches from his jugular vein, and doing a bit of damage to the tendons in his shoulder.

There would be no more boxing rings in Mush Meyers' future.

All the screaming and shouting and blood thankfully caught the attention of a few cops nearby, and, once they realized the severity of the situation, they tackled Tommy to the ground and commanded someone call the nearest doctor, or, by god, the boy was going to bleed to death right there on the street.

A good samaritan did just that, and Mush was taken to the hospital while Tommy Dugan was taken to the local precinct. As Mush was being stitched up and, later on, lectured on how lucky a young man he was to still be alive, Tommy was being sent to a prison a ways upstate, and this time, it was for good.

And that was how most of the population of the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House came to be crammed into the airless room at the end of the hall, each one eager to talk to Mush Meyers, the new local hero.


	6. Part 6

"Mush, lemme see where the bastard got ya! Take off those bandages, what are ya, some kinda sissy? That'll be one hell of a scar, huh?"

"Don't be stupid. He _can't_ take off da bandages. If he does it'll get all inflected. Right, Mush?"

"It's _infected_, you idiot. And ya'll need to stop screamin'. The boy got stabbed, he ain't deaf."

"Some guys get to have all the fun. Christ..._stabbed_. And by a genuine loony, too. Now there's a story to tell your grandkids."

That was quite enough for Mush. With dramatic flourish he threw his arm—the only one he could move—over his eyes and demanded that everyone leave the room except for Snoddy. Sure, he adored all the attention, and this whole injured act was working wonders in the girl department (who had all abandoned their tough tomboy facades to be little doting Florence Nightingales, the lot of 'em), but Snoddy and he were way overdue to have a little talk.

Once his wishes were heeded and the room emptied save for the pair of them, Mush uncovered his eyes and looked over at Snoddy, who had collapsed into a chair that looked to be about a hundred years old.

"Hey, look, Snoddy—"

"Before you say anythin', Mush, I just wantcha to know how happy I am that your okay. I know we give each other a lot a shit, but you're my pal," Snoddy interrupted, keeping his eyes on an absurdly large spider web inhabiting a corner of the ceiling that Kloppman had somehow missed.

There was a pregnant pause before Mush responded with a soft, surprised, "thanks, Snoddy." Glimpses of genuine affection were so rare in the lives of the boys that Mush didn't quite know how to take Snoddy's profession. So he shifted some in his bed and hurried the slight awkwardness away with a cough. "Now listen, I want to apologize."

Snoddy dragged his eyes away from the spider web to peer over at Mush in disbelief. "Apologize? You?"

Mush rolled his eyes. "Yeah, ya bum. I should of paid more attention to what you said about Tommy Dugan…could of saved us all a lot a trouble."

"Yeah," Snoddy agreed, resting his chin in his hand, "he sure did cause a few problems, didn't he?"

"More'n a few, I'd say. What kinda loon would think it'd be a hoot to start all those crazy stories?" He paused, shaking his head in wonder, then continued.

"What's the word from the outside? I haven't been outta this room in next to forever. Kloppman's convinced I'll get gangrene, or something stupid like that, and no one'll tell me the latest gossip."

"Gossip, eh?" Snoddy chuckled, stretching out in his chair, "yer thick as a freakin' brick, Mush. Haven't you learned your lesson?"

The question was answered by a blank stare from the bedridden newsie. Snoddy shook his head, chuckled again, and shrugged. "Well...I guess there has been _some_ news..."

"Yeah? What?" Mush was practically drooling he was so desperate for information. He felt like a leper, cooped up in this damn room with no windows for over a week.

"Davey an' Socks are engaged to be engaged," Snoddy said, smiling a little. Mush chuckled.

"Guess the Mouth got a little chicken after he learned she wasn't knocked up, huh?. What else?"

Snoddy sighed. Not all the news this week had been good. "No one knows where Tunes is at. Skittery still won't give up looking, he's beating himself up over how he treated 'er..."

"Too bad bout dat Tunes," Mush said, his words slow and blurry around the edges as the painkillers he had taken earlier began to do their job, "she wasn't a bad kid. End on a high note for me, okay?"

Snoddy mulled this over, desperate to think of a worthy tidbit. "I overheard Jack tellin' Gypsy how Stripes might be moving to Manhattan. Guess her and Conlon had a little fallin' out."

"Is that right?" Mush's eyes drooped, but there was a lopsided smile on his lips. "Imagine that, a Brooklyn girl to stir up some excitement."

As he friend drifted off, Snoddy laughed, and stood up slowly. "You know what buddy? I don't think we need any more excitement around here. Not for a long, long time," he flicked the light off and turned to go. Had there been windows in the small room, he could have looked up to see the lightest dusting of snow was beginning to covering the streets like confectioner's sugar, a delicate camouflage for the sullied city.


End file.
